


In my defense I have none (for digging up the grave another time)

by Carlet



Series: Philinda Forever and Always [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Philinda - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26311891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carlet/pseuds/Carlet
Summary: "He doesn’t merely hug her; he envelops her, sliding neatly between her and a column of rubble that comes crashing down inches from where she stands.And suddenly she isn’t sure how she feels anymore."Melinda's thoughts during the Lighthouse explosion in 7x13, and everything that comes after.
Relationships: Phil Coulson/Melinda May
Series: Philinda Forever and Always [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933060
Comments: 26
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "the 1" by Taylor Swift.

The Lighthouse rumbles around them.

Elena disappears with a smooth flash of air that Melinda barely registers, the bomb in her hands vanishing simultaneously.

She sees rather than feels the horror on his face as the realization hits them both at the same time that they may finally be too late.

How many close calls have they been through over the years? Melinda has lost count. The Kree, Inhumans, Hive, Hydra, ghosts, the Framework…

And now they’re about to be bested by bombs, of all things.

She looks helplessly up at Phil.

She’s too surprised to even attempt any defensive action against the bombs, not when she knows there’s no way out, not this time.

As the lights blink off and dust fills the air, he steps forward without hesitation and wraps his arms around her—

No. He doesn’t merely hug her; he _envelops_ her, sliding neatly between her and a column of rubble that comes crashing down inches from where she stands.

And suddenly she isn’t sure how she feels anymore.

* * *

She hadn’t realized how _real_ he would feel.

She hadn’t touched him since his…reappearance, not counting the occasional hand to hand contact. She hadn’t wanted to.

_Her_ Phil was buried decades in the future in a mostly unmarked grave (he hadn’t wanted the pomp and circumstance of a second official funeral) under a tree about a hundred feet away from the picturesque Tahiti beach.

_Her_ Phil had taken his last breaths in the chaise he’d loved so much, beneath the shade of a palm tree and nothing around save for miles of golden sand and brilliant blue ocean.

She’d said goodbye to _her_ Phil, and had been on her way to make peace with it.

And yet she knows that _this_ Phil isn’t exactly _her_ Phil, but he _is_ all the same, and it’s confusing and a dream and a nightmare all at once, and she’s partly glad she lost the ability to feel her own emotions, as it’s allowed her to stay objective and focus on the mission without allowing the awful gaping hole left by his death (that had slowly started to heal up until Sarge appeared) to overwhelm her, except now she’s feeling more like herself and suddenly she doesn’t know how to act anymore.

The Lighthouse rumbles around them and shakes violently. She’s unconsciously buried her face against his neck, and he holds her tightly against him, shielding her from the horror playing out around them. He’s solid and his jacket smells familiar (despite it being new) and she hadn’t expected him to feel like _him,_ and he’s _real._

He’s as real as the Phil who’d grabbed her without hesitation as Hydra began firing bullets at them back on that awful day SHIELD fell to Hydra.

He’d been furious with her, more so than she’d ever seen.

She’d had a feeling that despite their long history of arguments, petty disagreements on past missions, and her pushing him away after Bahrain, that this had truly been the end of them, that it hadn't mattered how hard she’d always tried to protect him (how many bullets, literal and metaphorical, she’d always taken for him) and how long she’d loved him.

For the first time, she’d questioned her part in the decision to bring him back.

For a moment, she’d thought he’d wanted her dead.

Her back had been to the window; the bullet had sliced through her arm before she even knew what has happening, and she’d unconsciously cried out in a move that was so unlike her, her usual defenses stripped raw from the anger he had been directing at her.

Yet without skipping a beat, he’d wrapped an arm around her, forcing her down before more bullets could pierce her flesh; he’d always kept an eye out for her, and this time had been no exception. He’d held her close, their heads inches apart, their previous argument all but forgotten in that moment.

To the naked eye, the tension between them had never existed.

Despite the gunshots ringing out loudly around them, drowning out all sounds, she’d swore she’d heard him whisper to her, reminding them that they would make it through whatever hell was playing out. He’d comforted her, protected _her_ , even after she’d knowingly watched him struggle with his resurrection and desire to find the truth for months.

And she’d known then that everything between them would turn out just fine in the end.

That there would never be anything they couldn’t survive together, that it hadn’t mattered she’d kept this awful, life-altering secret from him, because it was _them_ , and nothing could ever break them apart.

That Phil was _gone_ ; she’d practically counted his heartbeats in those final few days, holding her breath as if withholding oxygen from herself would mean increasing his dwindling breath count and keep the rise and fall of his chest going for just a while longer. She’d buried him herself, her still injured leg barely able to carry the weight of the shovel and the dirt as Daisy sobbed openly behind her, clinging to Jemma, as Yo-Yo and Mack had whispered prayers together under their breath. She’d looked back at the grave one last time and promised him she’d look forward and carry on his legacy as they’d discussed in the first few days on the beach when their relationship felt new and comfortable and familiar all at once.

He was gone, and yet he’s here too, having her back as he always had, or has.

She’d been too blinded by Andrew’s reveal as Lash to properly defend herself, fight back, find a way out, something, _anything._ Her mild-mannered ex had shot her in a surprising move so unlike him she’d laugh if she were able.

It had occurred to her as she’d woken up handcuffed to a pipe that confronting him alone had been a mistake, that even _she_ was outmatched if Strucker and the flight logs and the missing bloodwork had been correct about him.

It had also occurred to her that she could easily dislocate her wrist and wriggle her way out of the handcuffs. But that might have also set him off again, and her fear of seeing him transform into Lash kept her rooted in place. Andrew, or Lash, had murdered simply because he'd thought it was his destiny, and she so easily could’ve been next.

(Or, maybe it had been Andrew’s soft expression, his hand on her cheek, and the way her body had _still_ reacted to him after all that time, and how she’d walked away from him once and could not bear to do it again, not even if he'd killed her.)

But she’d known _he_ would come through, as he always had.

On the surface, Melinda was the one who always protected Phil. She was the muscle of the team, his enforcer, his right hand, and, whether either of them would admit it, his other half. Yet for all the times she’d been there for him, he’d done the same for her, and this had been no exception. Dropping everything to help the other, whether that meant being late to class, missed holidays, or botched missions. What did the rest of the world matter when Melinda needed Phil, or when Phil needed Melinda?

Despite the way she’d started to warm up to Andrew again in spite of the truly disturbing things he had been saying, she couldn’t deny the relief she felt upon hearing Phil’s voice (despite his untimely interruption). Had she truly been in imminent danger with Andrew? Possibly. Would he have actually hurt her? She’d like to think it was unlikely, but truthfully it was equally possible.

(Melinda had learned later he’d blown off the president to come find her, and despite the events of the day, she’d smiled a little.)

And when Lincoln had burst in and sparks had literally started to fly, Phil’s first thoughts had been on her. With no regard for his own safety, he’d dashed across the room, forcing her down, immediately wrapping an arm around her in an attempt to shield her. She’d been shaky, unfocused, her nerves shot from the Andrew/Lash revelation, and he’d been strong, his arm stable and keeping her grounded and exactly what she hadn’t realized she’d needed to make it through the rest of the day and swallow her sobs until she had safely been alone.

That arm, yet not exactly _that_ arm but the man behind the arm, shields her in the same way now. Little pieces of rubble crumble down around them, and she’d probably be stoned to death if it wasn’t for him, his arm taking the brunt of a particularly large stone that comes flying towards her head.

He feels like home. His body pressed protectively against her, simultaneously the body that she’s known for the better part of her life and the body that had been newly created in the lab by Enoch and Simmons.

His front is pressed to hers this time as the building is destroyed around them; she’s irrevocably reminded of _last_ time they’d found themselves in a similar situation.

He'd still had the shield then.

Of course the redneck who lived in the middle of nowhere had rigged his cabin with explosives.

She’d leapt into the hole in the cabin floor, Phil right behind. If she’d had a moment to think, it would have occurred to her that hiding there would have done little to save their lives. But like always, she’d trusted his judgement. Trusted _him._

Half a second later, the cabin had imploded around them. Sweat broke out along her hairline from the heat emanating around them, and she’d squeezed her eyes shut and curled in on herself to protect her uncovered skin as much as possible. The cabin shook violently. Melinda could hear the debris raining around them, and she’d felt rather than heard the large sheets of wood hurtling towards them, floorboards and pieces of the roof that somehow weren’t touching them.

Above all, she had felt his solid form against her back, his arm holding her close to him, and she’d known she was safe.

One of their first classes at the Academy had been about teaching cadets to trust their field partners implicitly, to believe in their team no matter what. Yet as much as they had tried to impart this lesson, most new SHIELD agents had struggled, constantly bickering with their partners and jeopardizing missions.

Everyone that is, except for Phil and Melinda. From the moment she’d met him, it was as though she’d known him her entire life, and she’d known from their first exchange that she could trust him with her life, and her with his, no matter what situation they found themselves in.

They’d had their arguments and hiccups, namely Project Theta, for one. But despite her anger, even then she’d known his intentions had been pure, and she’d stood by him.

(Even now, even after she’d returned from the dead (again) and _he’d_ returned from the dead (sort of), if she closes her eyes and forces her memories of Tahiti and parasailing and _him_ deep down, it is almost as if nothing had changed. Their implicit trust and faith between them and their ability to read the other, had never disappeared.)

As the explosion had died down around them, she’d looked from him, with his body curved upwards so that incoming debris had hit him first rather than her, to the glowing blue energy shield protruding from his prosthetic arm that had protected them from the explosion. And she’d known she was right, as always.

(She’d teased him about the shield later, rolling her eyes at his obvious attempt to imitate his hero. But damn if she hadn’t secretly found that shield sexy).

Melinda wishes he still had that shield now. His biceps, or perhaps his perpetually kind eyes or cheerful smile were amongst her favorite parts of him, although that shield came as a close second.

Their first real kiss had not been what she’d expected, although if she were to be honest, it had made perfect sense. Daisy had always teased them about how “married” they’d seemed, and Melinda herself hadn’t realized it until their ridiculous bickering.

And oh, moments later he’d pulled her close and had activated his shield, protecting her against the bullets as he’d always done, as he would _always_ do, and then they’d crashed together and it had felt so _natural_ and despite the chasm of terror in the pit of her stomach at the thought of him leaving her for good, something had slotted into place in her heart, and she’d smiled.

How would she have known that “for good” apparently meant nothing to Phil Coulson?

How is she supposed to deal with the way her heart breaks over and over, starts to scab over in an attempt to heal, only to be ripped apart once more as the closure she so desperately seeks never comes?

Her stubborn (and yes, misguided) insistence that a part of Phil resided in Sarge had gotten her killed.

This Phil won’t kill her, at least not physically; that much she is sure of.

But the push and pull of her slowly returning emotions, her raw desire to keep Phil close and safe clashing directly and bitterly with her raw desire to honor his wish to rest that had ultimately brought him to Tahiti in the end, her struggle for the closure she so craves that she knows she will never have now—that’s going to eat her alive.

Because he shouldn’t be here, not anymore, yet she’s so glad he is; her conflicting gratitude and grief filling her deeply and completely in a way that even she can feel despite the emptiness left behind whenever she’s not around other humans.

And she cannot help but feel like her selfish preferences are betraying him in the worst way imaginable.

Should she push him away? Insist he’s not him, when it’s clear it is, but not all the same? But how can she do that when he’s been there for her for as long as she can remember, patient and waiting as always?

Something knocks into him, a large sheet of rock that causes him to lose his balance. He falls forward, taking her with him. Her head slams into the ground, and amidst the chaos and the noise of the violently crumbling building, she hears him cry out.

_“Melinda!”_

She tries to sit up, lift her head, wiggle her fingers, _anything_ , but her body feels like lead, useless and unyielding and unmoving.

Nearly a lifetime ago, minutes after they’d escaped the Framework, one of the Ivanov LMDs had attacked them. She hadn’t realized just how long she’d spent in captivity until one punch had been enough to incapacitate her.

And now she doesn’t realize how hard she must’ve hit her head until she looks up to see Phil hovering over her, and is surprised to see his face swimming above hers.

She wants to call him a mother hen, to tease him for looking so worried, but finds that she barely has enough energy to continue drawing breath. (She doesn’t realize it’s the debris and soot and dirt floating in clouds around them that’s making it hard to breathe)

He reaches out and touches something along her hairline, and she winces at the feeling of his fingers against the tender skin there. He pulls his hand away; his fingers are coated with something dark, and she realizes a moment later it’s blood.

The raw concern is etched all over his face, strikingly real and familiar. He speaks, but it’s as if they’re underwater; she can see his mouth move in seemingly slow motion, yet she cannot hear him.

The room continues to rumble around them. Her vision tunnels, growing increasingly fuzzy at the edges. He cradles her head in one of his arms, positioning the rest of his body to continually shield her from further harm.

Back on the sub, the adrenaline had evaporated seconds after she’d defeated one of the Ivanov LMDs, having only been enough to fight off one of the impending threats; it had disappeared rapidly from her bloodstream, leaving her fatigued body useless once more as she’d fallen weakly to the ground, her breathing ragged, unable to hold herself up for a moment longer.

He’d rushed over to her within seconds, cradling her head with an arm. Despite their bleak surroundings, despite the fact that she knew she was defenseless and that he couldn’t possibly protect them both, she couldn’t help but feel comforted. They were together, and like always she’d known they’d make it through.

The same comfort washes over her now.

They’d made their way through the sub together, inch by inch, as he’d half carried her, as she’d struggled to take each step, as he’d tried to distract her by beginning to tell her about the Haig. As the subbegan to flood, he’d insisted on getting her out, and she’d vehemently disagreed, instead focusing on Mack’s safety above her own. They never had a chance to finish their Haig conversation until months later on that beach in Tahiti, as they’d parasailed and swam and conversed deeply for hours (yes, even she’d uncharacteristically found herself unable to stop talking) about their past, about SHIELD, about her terrible cooking, about any and everything and expressed the way they’d always felt about each other to make up for the time that had been running out.

They really never did get enough time together. They’d always had no choice but to accept that they would always be running out of time.

He holds her as best he can now, his eyes boring deep into hers. She’s always loved Phil’s eyes, and the ones looking back at her now are no different than the ones she’d stared into for most of her life. It is almost impossible to tell that this isn’t the Phil she’s spent most of her life with.

And she realizes…

It _is_ him _,_ no matter how hard she’s tried to draw a line between the Phil she’d mourned and the Phil here with her now.

It’s _always_ been him, robot body be damned.

A memory ignites deep within her, a small flicker that she struggles to grab onto. She sees herself back in the Framework, the cold stoic Hydra agent with the woman she’d known as Skye. Mack had pointed a gun at her; she hadn’t been afraid, not really, yet as Phil had rushed in front of her, she’d let out a breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding.

_“For reasons I can’t fully explain, I trust this woman.”_

It hadn’t been them, not really, in the Framework. They’d been literal strangers, and they should’ve meant nothing to the other.

Yet it _had_ been them, after all. Their brains, their souls, the very core of who they were…that had all been brought into the Framework. There would never be a world in which Phil didn’t protect Melinda, and a world in which Melinda didn’t protect Phil.

How is it any different now? How is the Phil that’s with her now any different from the Phil she’d left behind in Tahiti, the Phil she’s been mourning for over a year?

And yes, she knows, they _all_ know this isn’t Phil. But she also knows that it is, in a way. And maybe that’s enough, maybe that _can be enough._

(He’d died. She’d watched him die and she’d cried and she’d buried him and she’d tried and she’d failed to move on. But maybe the point of it all is that he would always come back.)

Is this a betrayal to his memory, to accept that this _is_ him, albeit differently? Or is it a betrayal to the man who has always been by her side if she continues to push him away?

She’d just wanted some damn closure after the Sarge business. She’d just wanted to move on. But he’s here now. He’d never given up on her, not ever, not after Bahrain, not after she was taken, and he’s here now, putting himself in the line of fire (or rubble) for her. Any and every version of Phil had and would always put her before himself, as he’s doing now.

They weren’t supposed to resurrect him. But they’d needed him, and as always, the team and the fate of the world had come first. And hadn’t bringing her back been selfish too? Back at the temple, she’d been ready to rest as she’d taken her last breaths in Daisy’s arms. She’d been ready to see him again, to stop putting her body through hell and back everyday. She hadn’t wanted the damn empath powers.

But the team had needed her too.

And he needs her now, as he’d told her back in the Lighthouse in the 1970s, and she needs him.

As it has always been.

* * *

She knows how to keep herself awake after a head injury. She knows she’s not supposed to give in to the fatigue and to the darkness; she is aware of the heightened dangers they face now with the crumbling building and Malick and the Chronicoms.

But knowing is one thing, and just like on that sub, her body yields to its desires, and her vision fades to black.

* * *

Voices run through her head, decibels louder than the sounds of the rumbling around them. 

_There’s no going back. Only forward._

_There's no way you can go through a trauma like that and not come out of it changed._

And she knows that when they make it out of the Lighthouse alive, they’re not wasting any more time.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Melinda feels him rather than sees him.

She periodically searches through her students for hints of boredom, confusion, and more. Too many students starting to tune out and she’ll pivot sharply from one topic to another to recapture their attention. If she senses she’s moving too fast, if her cadets’ overwhelm start to wash over her, she’ll pull back and patiently re-explain herself, usually stopping to take questions along the way. But mostly she feels nothing but pure appreciation and enthusiasm; she’s learned through her students that she’s known as one of the best, most well-respected instructors at the Academy.

(She’s easily discerned that from the way her classes have been filling up, from the cadets swarming her after every class and during every office hour, but she’ll never admit that it still gives her a slight thrill to feel that directly from her students themselves.)

She’s lecturing about the importance of trusting one’s field partner, reminding them that despite how each and every SHIELD agent has the world on his or her shoulders, despite the languages they must remember or the field techniques they must flawlessly execute in each mission, they’re not alone, that they would always have a partner to lean on, someone to smoothly fill the gaps where it’s needed most, and someone to share the triumphs and losses and so much more that comes with being an agent.

“However you need to get to know each other, do it. Whether it’s whiskey, sparring, locking yourselves together overnight, do what you can to build that trust with your field partner. Just please remember SHIELD’s fraternization rules. It’s bound to happen, but missions are no place for agents to air their dirty laundry.” Melinda smirks slightly, and the cadets chuckle.

(And no, she’s not talking about _him,_ no, because that would be unprofessional).

She pauses for a beat, partly to take questions, as she senses their eagerness and curiosity, and partly to examine how the class is feeling. She feels nothing more than a healthy mix of curiosity (perhaps she’s gone too far with that last comment) and rapt focus, but then…

Amongst the intermingled and complex colors emanating from the room, she senses something off, something still and peaceful, the eye of the storm in the chaos, and she looks up to see _him._

* * *

_Eight months ago._

The rumbling of the Lighthouse comes to a gradual halt. Dust floats gently around, coating the sheets of stone and drywall and rubble around them.

She vaguely registers that her head’s throbbing, but it’s dull, almost disconnected from her, almost as though the pain belongs to another. In fact, the rest of her body feels like it’s scattered elsewhere. It’s not entirely unpleasant.

She’s pinned beneath something heavy, solid; it smells like home. Her head’s pillowed atop a soft surface—no, it’s _cradled_ against something secure and comforting. Something (a hand?) gently taps against her cheek. She recognizes its warmth and almost unconsciously leans into it. But then something else presses up against the side of her head; it causes the pain in her head to multiply, to sharpen intensely.

She can swear she hears someone curse, then apologize, then curse again.

“ _Gotta stop the bleeding…”_

Bleeding? Who’s bleeding?

“ _Hang on…”_

Voices overhead, loud, jarring, rattling the drum beat in her head, and then suddenly the weight that traps her shifts. She almost misses the contact as she hears someone grunting, rubble shifting around, stone scraping against concrete—

_“Help me with May!”_

A hand slaps gently against her face. “Melinda? Can you hear me?”

She doesn’t want to respond. She wants to curl in on herself and allow the deliciously tempting darkness to overtake her once more.

But her field training kicks in a moment later, and her eyes fly open on instinct. The world is a swirl of various shades of gray, and the blurred images cause the nausea lingering in the back of her throat to rise up abruptly. Her eyes flit frantically around in search of something, anything familiar, until she lands on a familiar set of blue eyes, the only hint of color amongst the gray.

“Good,” He murmurs. “Just focus on me.”

She breathes shallowly, in through her nose and out through her mouth as she focuses her gaze on him. The world starts to clear, and she makes out the rubble of the Lighthouse around them. He nods encouragingly as he shifts the arm her head lies upon. His other arm remains up by her head, holding something soft (his jacket, she realizes) against the bleeding. “Ready to sit up?”

She must’ve responded in some manner, because he starts to help her up. Her head feels heavy, her limbs uncoordinated as she places an arm on either side of her body as she sits up.

Immediately, the world starts to spin. A second later, she takes a deeper breath, inadvertently taking in a large lungful of dust and other toxins, and immediately folds in on herself.

Melinda leans heavily against him as her body is wracked uncontrollably with coughs, and she falls sideways against his chest. Dimly she recognizes the feeling of his hand against her back, rubbing slow circles, as he murmurs soothingly in her ear, as he encourages her to expel the dust and debris and everything else she’s inhaled, as he pushes back sweaty strands of her hair from her face.

(It’s almost not fair, she thinks, that she’s here struggling to breathe, tears in her eyes as her body valiantly attempts to recalibrate itself, while he’s functioning just fine).

Eventually her breathing evens out, and she stops hacking with every inhale. She’s disoriented, breathing ragged, but she’s up, she’s standing. Elena looks over with concern as she pauses in the middle of clearing a path out of the mess for them.

“Come on,” Elena coughs lightly and waves her hand forward. “It will be better up there.”

Melinda takes a small step forward and her legs shake almost immediately, and without hesitation he wraps an arm around her waist to steady her before she can crumple to the ground.

At least this time the room isn’t flooding, and her muscles are unsteady from the pounding in her head, not weak from weeks of disuse. “I’ve got you,” he reassures. “Let’s get you out of here.”

She brings a shaky hand up to secure his jacket against her head so he’s not twisted awkwardly around her as they start to make their way out, following Elena down the hall. He kicks aside pieces of rubble before she can trip over them, his eyes adjusting better to the dim hallway better than hers. “Almost there.” He murmurs as they reach an opening.

Elena has made her way a bit further ahead, scouting the best path forward, and Phil helps Melinda lean against a large sheet of rock, pausing for a moment to allow themselves (mostly her) to catch their breath.

No pipe through her leg this time, and she’s not going insane and seeing demons everywhere, but the concern is still the same. “You okay?”

She nods curtly. “Could’ve been worse.”

He surveys her, and his eyes flick up to the blood trickling down the side of her head as he reaches up to wipe it away with his sleeve. “May…that was quite a scare.” For a moment he moves forward as though he’s about to embrace her again, and she finds herself leaning slightly towards him, but then he seems to think better of it and shifts his position so that he maintains a respectable distance.

In an instant she buries the longing that has risen up inside her chest, and she scoffs instead. “Not the first time.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier.”

He’s right, she hates to admit. No matter how many times either of them have found themselves in harms way, no matter how many times they’ve survived the impossible, seeing the other hurt has and will always feel as though they’re being buried alive, as though breathing and thinking straight were no longer options, and that they’d take the others place in a heartbeat if it meant protecting them.

“Phil.” She doesn’t miss the brief surprise flash across his face at her use of his first name instead of simply _Coulson._ There are so many things she wants, that she _needs_ , to say. She wants to express how grateful she is that he’s saved her life, that he’s there, that he’s _always_ there, that she hadn’t clung to him as the building had crumpled solely to protect herself, that everything she’s always felt for him is still there beneath the surface. She needs to tell him how sorry she is for pushing him away for so long, that she knows he needs her just as much as she needs him. But the words stick in her throat, and like always, she’s unable to speak her truth.

Instead, her eyes search his, and as usual they flash with the understanding that has always come easily between them.

“I know.” He says simply.

But it’s not enough; he needs to hear her _say_ it, he deserves that much, and she needs to be brave enough to finally admit everything out loud again as she’d done once before, except this time he’s not dying, and she needs to say this before one of them runs out of time again.

“I—“ Melinda begins urgently, but a shout from Elena interrupts her.

“I found Garrett! Need some help over here!”

She closes her eyes for a moment and hisses, frustrated at the lost opportunity.

He squeezes her hand. “Hey. Don’t worry. When we get out of this mess,” he promises as he’d done once before. “we will talk once we’re on the other side. At length.”

His eyes meet hers, the familiar expression of resolve strengthening her from within, she nods. 

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

It’s a promise she intends to keep.

Again.

* * *

There are 15 minutes left until her class is over for the day. 15 minutes until she can dismiss her students, until she can go up to him and ask what in the hell he’s doing here.

15 minutes.

900 seconds.

She has half a mind to stop her lecture abruptly despite the importance of the subject, despite the gossip that’s surely going to erupt, despite the disappointment of the cadets.

But she’s waited, _they’ve_ waited months. And years, before that. What’s a few more seconds when they’ve already faced decades?

* * *

Once it’s over, she seeks him out.

The Lighthouse is quiet. Daisy had gone to sleep in her bunk hours ago, dragging Sousa with her. (Melinda had lingered far, far away from the new couple, having zero intention of picking up their budding feelings for each other by getting too close as she’d inadvertently done when Mack and Elena had reunited in the Lighthouse back in the 80s). Fitzsimmons had retired to their room as well, to put their daughter to sleep and then tie a few technical time travel related loose ends with Piper that had instantly made her brain hurt. As for Mack and Elena? May hadn’t even wanted to know.

She knows from experience that Phil likes to pace or to tinker with something to wind down after a long mission, to allow himself a moment to catch up and slow down and finally just breathe. She figures this Phil isn’t any different.

He doesn’t have an office here, not anymore, not after he’d cleared it out for Mack before they’d left for Tahiti. There are plenty of open bunks in the Lighthouse, but somehow she knows she’d find him in the common area.

Back on the Playground, after giving up the Director position to Mace, his go to place had been the common area.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

He turns around and his eyes light up upon seeing her approach. “Not like I really need to anymore. What’s your excuse?”

“We need to talk.”

“Sounds serious.” He jokes, although there’s no weight to it. “Am I in trouble?”

Melinda rolls her eyes, although she can’t fully suppress the half smile that spreads across her face. She ambles over and takes a seat in the chair next to him as he minimizes the security feed he’s been monitoring.

He gestures up at the bandage that’s half hidden by her hair. “How’s your head doing?”

She shrugs. “Hurts. Would’ve been lot worse if you hadn’t been there.” She scoots her chair towards his, and suddenly their knees are nearly touching. She swears the heat she feels emanating between them is just imaginary.

“I didn’t mean to push you away.” She blurts.

He is silent, patient, waiting for her to continue. She’s grateful.

She has the strongest urge to stare at her hands, or fix her gaze on the wall behind him—anywhere but at him. But as she’d promised herself once before, she’s vowed to stop hiding. She fixes her gaze upon his and holds steady despite the churning in her stomach. “You told me you needed me, and I just…it had nothing to do with you. You’ve always been there for me, and I should’ve been there for you too. I knew you didn’t want to be brought back. I made it harder for you.”

“I get it,” he says, and she blinks at him in surprise. “I don’t blame you. I mean, it wasn’t easy, not being able to talk to you, not really. But I didn’t fully understand how you were feeling until the time storm. I watched you, _all_ of you, die. I don’t even know—I lost count after maybe 40 loops in. I tried to save you each time. But I was always too late. I watched as Enoch snapped your neck, as you were sucked out into space, as…” he pauses and takes a ragged breath in, staring at a spot over her head, and she knows if he were able to, he would’ve been crying by now.

“And for you to not even be aware of any of this, for everything to just reset itself when each time it felt like my world had ended and a part of myself had died with you…that’s when I realized what you have gone through, what you are _still_ going through. You’d died, and it’d hadn’t even been permanent. If our positions had been flipped, I would’ve done the same. My being here is hard for you, and I understand.”

“I need you, though,” Melinda admits. “I’ve always needed you, even if we don’t go back to…what we were before. And it’s not only because you saved my life. You always make things better. Even when I couldn’t feel it.”

This is the most she’s spoken since she’s returned from the dead (or perhaps _ever)_ and it’s unnerving, unnatural, and she almost stops, retreats back into the familiar and comforting shell of silence. But like her sore muscles after sparring, or the awkward contortions she forces her face into when being forced to smile while undercover, the discomfort of expressing herself is a necessary growing pain (or evil), and she forces herself to push past the burn.

“It’s been loud,” she continues. “My mind hasn’t really been my own, not for a while. I’ve tried to push it away, to focus on what’s _mine,_ but that’s impossible, being surrounded by so many others all the time. But with you? It’s quiet. It’s nice. I feel like me again.” As she speaks, she unconsciously reaches out and takes his hand, and like before, she feels the tumultuous chaos swirling within her start to settle.

It’s peaceful, she realizes, being with him. Peaceful like it had been before, but different now, in a good way.

“And I don’t want to push you away anymore. If this has taught us anything, it’s that we need to stop wasting time. With Sarge, I thought I had a chance to get a part of you back. I was wrong about him. But I’m not wrong this time. You’re back. You _always_ come back. I just didn’t want to believe it at first. I wanted to think it was all programming. But I always knew that you, and how you feel now, have _always_ been real.”

His expression is tender as he takes in her words, and he looks as though he’s exercising a large amount of restraint to hold himself back from taking her into his arms. He settles for running his thumb along the back of her hand. The last time he’d done so had been in Tahiti, as she’d napped on the chaise next to his. “May…”

“You’re _not_ just tech.”

“But I’m not him, the old me, either.”

“No. And _I’m_ not me, either.” She agrees. “But you’re Phil. Always have been. Always will be.”

“And you really believe that?”

Her gaze is steady as she reaches out and touches his arm. “I do.” 

Suddenly, she’s back on the Bus all those years ago when she’d asked him to unbutton his shirt, as she’d seen his scar for herself for the first time and had to work hard to suppress her sobs while reassuring him that he was still _him, o_ r perhaps in his office at the Playground, as she’d lightly traced her hand over his new one, watching it light up from her touch (he’d confessed later his hand _never_ lit up for anyone else, only her), or the day she’d comforted him after he’d killed Ward, initiating him into the ranks of the cavalry.

Something shifts between them, ever so subtly, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick down to her lips for an instant. If she’s being honest, she’d have to admit that she has to swallow her sudden desire to be even closer to him, to feel him against her again.

“We’re a hell of a pair, huh?” He says instead. “How many times have we both died and come back, between the two of us?”

“We never did get around to making t-shirts.”

“We never did get around to a lot of things.”

“Maybe we can change that.”

“Maybe we can.”

Unlike last time, they don’t break eye contact. They’re long past any initial awkwardness and doubt.

They could do it, she thinks. Set everything, their past, her death, his death, their lingering doubts, _everything_ , aside and simply just be together. Pick up where they’ve left off and where they’ve always seemed to be.

But that wouldn’t be right. Not now. Not like this.

Not when she’s started to concretely formulate her plan, no _their_ long-standing plan to restart SHIELD Academy, making good on the promises she’d sworn to in Tahiti, although if she is to be specific, they’d discussed it, or more like fantasized about it, _long_ before Tahiti, back before the LMDs and time travel and all that other nonsense had derailed them, and now she’s finally making it happen, and she can’t afford any distractions, not even if that distraction’s named Phil.

Not when he’s still figuring out who he is, because he’s different, and so is she, because how can they go through traumas like the ones they’ve experienced and not come out changed?

Not when the way they both see and experience the world has shifted, tilted on its axis, recognizable and familiar yet irrevocably strange and foreign all at the same time, and they’re both still struggling to find their footing.

“So here’s what I think we do,” she says. Recognition flashes across his face, and she can’t help but smirk, because they both know what’s coming. “When get out of this mess—“

“We _just_ got out of one.” He whines playfully. It’s _so_ Phil she almost leans up to kiss him right then.

“Fine.” She huffs. “When we both…figure some things out, we take a couple steps back, start again. Then, when it feels right, maybe we…well, we can’t open another bottle because you apparently drank the last bottle of Haig on Earth.” She gives him a flat look.

“We’ll find something.” He says. “Something better.”

And like last time, it feels like a promise of a new beginning.

One she knows they’ll fulfill again.

It’ll just be a matter of time.

* * *

They’re in a room, not technically, but in a room all the same, with all the others, Fitzsimmons, Daisy, Elena, Mack.

But for a moment, it’s almost as though she’s alone with him.

They’ve texted a few times since the team split ways, since she’d left to rebuild the Academy and Fitzsimmons had retired and Mack had left to oversee SHIELD’s new helicarrier and sent Daisy, Sousa, and Kora on a space exploration mission and Elena on a different mission with her new strike team consisting of Piper and LMD Davis.

She’d occasionally sent messages to grouse about the papers she has to grade, all the galas she’s expected to attend as the Academy’s Executive Director and most well renowned professor (though she will always prefer her students call her Agent over Professor) or all the _small talk_ that inevitably comes with her new position, and he patiently reads her texts and gently reminds her what she already knows, that despite it all, she’s happy where she is. In return, he’s sent photos of wherever he’s ended up, from the Great Wall of China to the African safari, places they’d visited in passing while on missions in their youth but had never actually had the chance to experience. 

But mostly they’ve taken the time for themselves, to reacquaint themselves with their new identities and figure out who they are now.

Now, in the bar that’s not a bar, she sees him again for the first time. Melinda can’t help but give him a quick once over, scanning him in the guise of looking around the room. He looks good, well rested, if that’s possible for an LMD, and his new suit, well, _suits_ him so nicely she can’t help the frisson of desire from running down her spine. He speaks and moves and laughs with an easy confidence that hadn’t been present the last time they’d seen each other.

For the first part of their team (family) reunion, her attention’s diverted between him and the rest of the group, and although they’re physically not in the same place or even galaxy, in Daisy’s case, she swears she can feel them from whatever city, country, or nebula they are currently located. And in return, she wonders if they can feel her, if she’s sharing her anticipation and joy and her pounding heart with them in the same way she’d shared her empathy with the Chronicoms.

She’s seen Mack and Elena pretty frequently, as both have given guest lectures to her students, and they’ve all attended SHIELD events together whenever possible. Their new apartment is even close to hers, although Melinda had been careful to ensure she’d chosen a place _not too close_ , because she still remembers what it’s like to come home after a long mission and immediately desire for…parasailing.

But Daisy or Fitzsimmons she’s seen less of, and for the first part of the reunion, she’s focused solely on catching up with the agents now scattered far and away. She hadn’t realized how much she’s missed them, although Daisy _had_ visited just a few months back, leaving behind a few things in Melinda’s apartment in the spare room that Daisy has claimed for herself, and Melinda’s made a point of calling the younger agent once a week. As for Fitzsimmons, retirement suits them, and she’s eager to hear about their quiet life and their daughter, who refers to her as “Grandma May” or simply “Granny”, and no it doesn’t make her heart expand with warmth every time she thinks about it.

On her second peek, he catches her eye, and she knows she’s been caught.

(She doesn’t blush, of course)

His eye twinkles.

And suddenly it’s as if everyone in the room fades away, and her entire attention is on him, and she sees only him.

Many times in their long careers with SHIELD, they’d found themselves apart for one reason or another, barely speaking for months at a time, or perhaps communicating only over short texts or calls. But as she sees him now, she knows it’s different somehow, that after everything, they’re more than simply the other’s best friend or field partner.

They’d agreed to take a step back, to figure out who their new selves are before committing to anything with the other. She’s made significant strides over the year; no longer is she so strongly affected by everyone around her, as she’s now able to more easily control the flow of emotions and focus only on the ones she wishes to hone in on, and she’s simultaneously more different and more like herself than she ever has.

She admits she still struggles, and there are some days she can turn off the ability to feel what everyone else does and be alone with her own emotions again. Or, she wishes she doesn’t need to bare her history and her soul to her overeager cadets day after day as they surround her before and after lectures and press her for details on her long past as an agent. She sometimes longs to be back in the solitude of her cockpit, or back in the field with her team (her family), focusing on one goal, instead of being responsible for the next generation of agents.

It’s an overwhelming and terrifying prospect, much more daunting than facing Lash, the Framework, or the Kree all over again, and there are days she’s so uncertain of what she’s doing or how she’s found herself here, and no matter how many times she’s reinvented herself, she’ll never truly know if she’s doing the right thing.

He looks good, she notes again, and she’s happy to hear he’s planning on taking more time, that he doesn’t wish to power himself off just yet, that they stood a chance of returning back to _them._

They’d decided to take time, to reassess, to take a step back. And yet she doesn’t know what will look like, and when it will feel _right._ Last time, they’d just sort of…happened, and while it had been beautiful and terrifying and amazing all the same, she wants their second chance to be right.

Can she let him in again despite the doubts and insecurities that still plague her whenever she looks in the mirror to see the stark contrast, to see herself physically unchanged yet completely transformed at the same time?

Has he accepted who he has become despite his initial misgivings?

_Are_ they ready to build a life with the other, one that they both hope will last longer than a few weeks this time?

But as she lets Fitz and Simmons’s words wash over her, their contentment with their quieter lives, or the excitement with which Elena and Daisy speak about their experiences with SHIELD now, as she hears him chuckle beside her at something Mack’s saying, the warmth of it filling her, she knows she’s ready.

Because what is _read_ y _,_ anyway?

She hadn’t been ready to leave that cubicle and join their ragtag team of agents, a group she’d eventually come to see as her family.

She hadn’t been ready to take on young Agents Skye or Fitzsimmons under her wing, earning her the title of Bus Mom (a nickname that Daisy and Fitzsimmons had not been as secretive about as they’d believed).

She hadn’t been ready to join him on the Bus.

She hadn’t been ready to pair up with the nerdy cadet from Communications all those years ago.

She certainly hadn’t been ready to join him in Tahiti and embark on the next step in their relationship, whatever that had been at the time.

She hadn’t been ready to so bluntly admit how she’d felt back in the Lighthouse when he’d been dying, and she’d been _so_ angry at him for throwing it all away.

And yet she’d jumped headfirst each time, never even thinking to look back, because that’s what she’s believed in her entire life, looking ahead and just enjoying and being thankful for the journey along the way.

Because one thing she’s always been sure of is that with Phil by her side, she’ll always find her footing no matter how shaky and uncertain and confusing everything is.

Hadn’t she done that time and time again? What makes this time different? Who are they to let death stop them?

So she extends the invitation to him, subtly hinting that she’s ready to give _them_ a try all over again whenever he’s ready. The rest of the group jumps in, mentioning how much they would love for him to join them, and he responds to each one of them in a vague and open ended manner as he does with her.

_“You might be seeing me.”_

As his eyes sweep across hers, she knows he’s received the message, because years and years ago, they’d learned to read between the lines when it came to the other.

* * *

As soon as the last cadet filters out of the now empty lecture hall, he approaches, a cup in each hand, and she already knows one of them contains coffee and the other green tea.

“Hi.” His grin is wide and his expression dopey and she swears her heart doesn’t jump at the sight. 

“What are you doing here?”

(As if she doesn’t already know)

“I had to see you.”

She tilts her head to the side in mock confusion. “Weren’t you at the meet up about an hour ago? Or are you starting to lose track of time in your old age?”

He chuckles. “I think you’re older than me now. Despite appearances to the contrary.”

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.”

Phil sets the cups on the podium beside her laptop, “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

She wants to smile, wants to allow the bubble of joy growing in her heart to spread and share it with him, but instead she schools her features into a neutral mask. “Oh, really?”

“We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

“Thirty plus years and counting. Tahiti notwithstanding.”

“Everything’s weird and it’ll probably never stop feeling that way,” he admits. “Seeing you again back there made me realize…I can probably spend the rest of my life, and we know it’ll be a _long_ one with my new upgrades, trying to figure out who I am now, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Not without you by my side.”

The bubble of joy expands until it’s full to bursting, and she doesn’t think she’s smiled wider in her entire life.

“This past year has been incredible and difficult and awkward,” he continues. “I’ve learned more about myself than I ever thought possible, and I’ve only scratched the surface of all the places in the world I’d love to see. But none of it means anything without you.”

“So you’re saying…”

“I’m saying,” he takes another step towards her and places his hands on her upper arms, hugging her close. Can he feel her trembling? “It will never feel right. There will never be the perfect time. We’re still figuring things out, but I don’t see why we can’t do it together.” He’s so close she can see the blue of his eyes, the light stubble on his cheeks, and the quirk of his smile.

(How could she ever have doubted that this is him?)

He’s nearly a hair’s breadth away. “We’ve spent enough time apart. I don’t want to waste another second without you,” he says, and he leans in impossibly closer, and his lips are about to make contact, but no, she can’t, not like this.

Melinda can see the joy in his eyes vanish rapidly as she shifts her head to the side, turning so that his lips press against the side of her cheek instead. Almost immediately, he takes a step backward.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry. Did I read that wrong?” He’s utterly _crestfallen_ , his face crushed as he sticks his hands into his pockets instead. “I-I thought…I’ll just go—“

“No.” She interrupts. She wants to comfort him, do anything to make it all better, but she can’t, she has to do this first.

“It’s-it’s just…I want to be sure.”

She nearly stops herself; is she really going to admit this out loud?

But she has to know.

This is it, the final obstacle. The thought that’s been keeping her up for months, nagging her during every waking moment, causing her to second guess their deal.

She needs to be certain.

“Of course I—“

“That’s not what I mean.” She bites her lip and looks down at the carpet, and almost hates herself for doing so, for appearing so _uncertain_ and _insecure_ and so unlike her. “You’re going to…longer than me, now. I don’t want you to….there’s a lot you’ve wanted to see, places to go.”

And for a second they’re back on that bench in the Lighthouse, her leg still hurts, and her world has just ended.

“I won’t be around forever. The last thing you need to waste your time on…” 

(Except she knows she’s not a lost cause. She’s a damn good agent and professor and mentor and Chinese takeout connoisseur, so it doesn’t and it _shouldn’t_ matter that she’s not immortal.

Right?)

He laughs right then, and she’s so surprised because how _dare_ he find this funny when she’s baring her soul to him, and she nearly punches him, except he’s lifting her chin with a hand and forcing her gaze up to meet his.

“ _Melinda_.” He whispers and his eyes are so full of emotion it takes her breath away.

Despite it all, she finds herself daring to hope.

“As a wise, beautiful, sexy, wonderful, woman once said, who I waste my time on is for me to decide. But I’ll have you know, it _won’t_ be a waste of time. It never will be, not with you.”

The bubble of joy explodes into a symphony of fireworks, and without hesitation she leans up on her tiptoes to kiss him, finally.

The last first kiss had been an explosion of passion and fire. They’d been arguing only moments before, and they’d met with a mixture of anger and grief and lust so intense her head had spun and her knees had gone weak, and she’d had to remind herself where she was after they’d broken apart.

This time, it’s softer, sweeter, like sinking into a hot bath after a long day, or the first sip of a really strong whiskey. It fills her to the brim with a warmth she hadn’t known she’d longed for all year.

It feels like coming home.

They have all the time in the world for the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
